


In The Line of Duty

by hanwritessolo



Series: Alternate Universes In Which You and I Belong Together [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Mush, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: Ignis is deemed to be the best agent in the Lucian Security Bureau. The record of his successful protective missions are as pristine as his fine reputation. Which is why when he gets employed to ensure your safety—an award-winning movie star with a mean streak for mischief—he knows he is about to face the biggest challenge of his career. His job is pretty simple: He must never let you out of his sight. And he must never fall in love with you.





	In The Line of Duty

Ignis breezes through the freeway, his Aston Martin almost flying through the rainy night. He is never one to drive like a madman, but this is a desperate time that certainly calls for this very desperate measure. He spares a glance at the rearview mirror. A shabby white Mitsubishi and a gaudy yellow Volvo still remain in close pursuit. Looks like the flock of paparazzi back from Maagho’s really is a persistent lot. In the passenger seat, you sit in an unsettling silence.

_Fuck these bastards,_ he mutters under his breath.

Speed limits be damned. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Ignis revs the engine and zips past the steady traffic.

“Let’s get you back to your flat, alright?” he offers kindly.

You say nothing.

Suddenly, Ignis finds himself missing your chatty, teasing antics. That silly smile of yours. By this time, you should have been pleading him to let you go someplace else—anywhere but your place—while annoying him to death with your usual smartass quips. You never do.

Months before, Ignis had been perfectly convinced you were the most insufferable human he has ever come across. Funny how he now thinks otherwise. Even funnier that he now cares. Because it’s not his business to care. His job was never to look nor to listen.

But at this point, you have made him break every single rule in his book.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Ignis notices when he meets you is your eyes.

Something about your strong and striking gaze makes him wonder why someone like him is even employed at your service. One look from you, he is pretty certain you are completely capable on your own in terms of sending anyone who dares cross your path—may it be troublesome paparazzi, or overzealous fans and haters alike—to run with their tails between their legs. Your composure and confidence says just as much. Seems to him that you’re the type of person who does not need anyone’s protection, let alone a bodyguard.

Which is a sentiment you made very clear that morning in the luxurious luster of Hotel St. Regis’s lobby.

“I’m afraid Aranea here has wasted your time—” you tell Ignis as you set your cup of coffee back on the table, sharply turning your attention to the silver-haired woman who is sitting across from you— “but like I said, I can take care of myself just fine—”

“Really?” Aranea scoffs, casting you a challenging glare. “And by taking care of yourself, do you mean going around punching paparazzi square in the face and breaking their camera as you please?”

You shrug. “Well, that fella fucking deserved it—”

“Whether they deserved it or not isn’t the fucking point, you idiot. Do you have any idea how Cor had to shell out his own money to keep that incident from going out to the press?” Aranea sighs in resignation. “Look, this is more than just taking care of yourself. This is about—”

“—my career, my image, and my reputation, blah blah blah. Yes, you don’t need to do all of Cor’s spiel—I get it.”

Aranea raises an eyebrow. “Do you really? ‘Cause if you really did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation and Ignis wouldn’t be the fourth replacement in the span of six fucking months.”

You fall silent. Though Ignis is compelled to say something, he knows very well not to provide his thoughts, unsolicited or otherwise. That’s never in his job description. He had been trained to keep his mouth shut, and he is going to do just that. Besides, what would he know? Such is the world of glitz and glamour that is show business, and Ignis has never been tasked with handling celebrity clientele before. If anything, among his peers, it was either Gladio or Nyx who gets paired with the high profile A-listers. Clarus’s directive for him came as a strange surprise, the initial briefing of his task even stranger. All throughout his fifteen years of service in the Lucian Security Bureau, people frequently assigned to Ignis were government big shots, business moguls, and upper echelons of society who have been targets of terror and violence.

However, in your case… Ignis could see that you fit in neither the former nor the latter. At least for now, that’s what he thinks.

You spread your elbows over the table, eyeing Aranea with a wicked smile all over your face. “You know what would be better, Ari?”

“Don’t call me _that—”_

“You could pass as both my handler _and_ bodyguard, don’t you think?

Aranea looks at Ignis, then back at you. “Does that come with a raise?”

You lean back against your seat. “Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.” Aranea exhales a derisive laugh. “Then I suppose we leave Ignis to do that job for all our sakes. Anyway, we better get going—” from her satchel, she pulls out a sleek-looking tablet— “you have to be ready for your four p.m. table read and a seven p.m. interview Dino of Meteor Publishing.” To Ignis, she says, “I assume you’ve already been briefed by your superior about all your responsibilities?”

Ignis sits up straighter and nods. “Yes.”

“Good. It’s pretty simple actually, but the past bodyguards can’t seem to do it.” Aranea smiles, clapping Ignis by the shoulder as she narrows her eyes on you. “Just don’t let this moron out of your sight, and we’ll all be fine.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing you notice about Ignis is his eyes.

Never mind the scar that cruised the left side of his face, that tiny slash over his right eyebrow, or even the one on the bridge of his nose. He didn’t even need to look at you directly for you to marvel at how fiercely green his eyes are, like the colour of a bright summer’s day. However, back in the lobby with Aranea, there is no warmth in his silences nor in his clinical concentration; there is only a crippling coldness. One look at him and you could already surmise that he’s had his fair share of danger in his profession. Though he is lean and lithe unlike your past bodyguards who all seem to be built out of heavier materials, you cannot shake the feeling that Ignis might have killed a man with his bare hands.

Still, you don’t really need someone like Ignis. You _never_ needed someone like him. A bodyguard should have been the least of your concerns. Besides, you have enough people monitoring your every move that getting a fucking bodyguard is as insane as it’s going to get. Cor often reminds you that this is all for your safety, and that as your manager, he only wants to keep you safe. Aranea chastises you that you’re overreacting, and that you’re still free as a bird. Except you’re as free as any bird locked in a cage that they might as well just lock you up in prison.

And in the first few hours that Ignis has started following you around, the fact that he hardly spares you a moment for a decent conversation—except for his courteously clipped responses like _“Let me know if you need anything else,”_ or _“I’ll be right outside your door”_ —prison seems like a more amiable place to be.

 

* * *

 

By his second week, Ignis finally understands how unpredictable you can be.

Okay, maybe he does not understand it quite fully. He has to admit, though: he admires the elaborate effort you put into your juvenile pranks. It comes in the strangest of ways and in the oddest of days: from your attempts to lock him up inside your trailer, down to that crafty disguise to sneak out of the film set, all of which he had seen you fail miserably time and again. Out of all your many crimes, petty they may be, hopping in the backseat of someone else’s car to escape him from an after party still takes the cake. He had to forcefully “borrow” a stranger’s motorcycle just to chase you down, which he managed to do in less than an hour. Not an impressive feat for someone his calibre, but at least he got you home in one piece—and without Cor or Aranea even knowing.

What fuels your sheer determination to drive him off his wits, Ignis does not know. The only thing he knows for sure is that you’re one bloody piece of work.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn ya, Specs,” Gladio reminds Ignis one sordid afternoon back in the Lucian Security Bureau HQ. In the saintly cleanliness that is his cubicle, he finds Gladio lounging on his seat together with Nyx, as if they had been expecting his unlikely visit. The air-conditioned hustle remains the same, the glass panels and all the white walls still as stark bright as Ignis remembers it to be. He really has been away for far too long that he finds himself missing that familiar scent of ink and paper, and even the faces of these two troublemakers.

“So how’s your new post treatin’ you?” Nyx breezily asks. His tone is not of concern, but a knowing amusement that Ignis can easily recognize. “The look on your face says you’re either in need of a stiff drink or to get laid.”

“Or could be both,” Gladio adds.

Actively ignoring the smug looks on his friends’ faces, Ignis does not answer them, but instead, he asks: “Aren’t the both of you supposed to be somewhere else?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” Gladio snaps back. He picks up Ignis’s tin of mints on his table and pops one on his mouth.

Nyx loops an arm around Ignis. “Y’know, celebrities can be a pain, so if you’re here to request Clarus for a reassignment, we promise not to judge.”

Ignis looks at Nyx for a brief moment. A _reassignment._ How come he never thought of that? Sure, you can be annoying and a menace to his daily routine, but Ignis suddenly finds it strange that he has never considered the prospect of requesting for a change in client. Maybe he has his brand of patience to thank for, or his unworldly forbearance in the years that he has spent in this profession.

But then—as if by seeing Nyx and Gladio after such a long time of being away—he realizes that maybe, you’re not _that_ bad. Even in your reckless and determined attempts of making his life a living hell, you also make an effort to make conversation. Not that it’s anything special. He has been wired to being strictly on someone’s beck and call that most of his past clients do not even bother to look at him in the eye. Most of them see him as a weapon, a blade to be wielded against their enemies. Small wonder Ignis himself often forgets that he is a living and breathing person. He can barely remember having a life outside this job. He can barely remember the last time someone apart from Gladio and Nyx asking him anything about his hobbies or other interests or even about his family.

But you do. You _try._ Even on the first few days when Ignis didn’t know how to respond. It’s just that he doesn’t know how to. He fears that you might have interpreted that as indifference, and he regrets to have responded to you as such. He thought you would have given up by now, seeing how he had acted so callously, but you have the persistence of a honey badger that you use on him to get him to talk, or to even to smile a little.

Nyx looks at Ignis, this time with a genuine hint of concern. Ignis has not realized that he had been quiet for some time.

But he has realized that you have grown so much on him, which is such a disturbing thought to entertain.

“I think a reassignment is highly unnecessary,” Ignis says finally—almost to himself and not to Nyx and Gladio—as he takes his leave.

 

* * *

 

By his second week, you finally understand how Ignis can be so predictable.

There’s the matter of his morning routine. He follows it too religiously that you start to notice the little things. He wakes up as early as six a.m.—on the dot, not even a minute late—to work out at the back of your trailer. Three sets of push ups, squats, crunches, all in that order. Seven-thirty a.m., he wraps up, takes a shower, grabs a nice cup of coffee with some of the film crew. He likes his coffee strong and black, no sugar. How you know all of this like the same way you know all of your lines is beyond you.

But maybe he’s not _too_ predictable. Not entirely.

You still have not seen him smile, despite the significant progress in the conversation department. And by significant, you mean that his answers have finally upgraded from one-word responses to lengthy sentences. Considering all the stupid shit you pulled on him, it’s almost a wonder that he even indulges you from time to time by answering any of your random questions.

Though in the process, you have learned a handful of tidbits about his life. For one, you find out that he happens to be an excellent cook. Once, he has shared with you how he wanted to build a restaurant of his own, and that it is only a matter of time before he could pursue that dream. Hearing him confide something that personal throws you off guard, but somehow, you feel quite relieved. You also learn that he has never seen any of your films, nor is he even aware of your awards and accolades—which, frankly, is the most gratifying thing you have ever heard in your life. You have also learned that he has not forgiven you for making him chase you all throughout the city. Which is fair. If that had happened with any of your previous bodyguards, they would not even bother sparing you another word even if you are the last person on this planet, and they would most certainly quit their job the next day.

But Ignis is different. A good kind of different.

Nevertheless, what you now find unfair is that you have never seen him smile. Unfair because he has seen yours a countless times at this point—fake ones on set included. He even gets a bonus because he has also seen you laugh at the most ridiculous things. Ignis, however, seems to be programmed with a limited range of emotions. You have not seen his face look anything but blank or bored, too surly or too serious.

It is only when you suddenly fall sick in the middle of filming that you find a new expression on his face. 

Right after the director screams _“Cut!”_ you wobble outside the set, past the cameramen, past the make up artists, past Aranea who’s probably busy handling your next schedule. When Ignis hurries by your side, you could barely focus your eyes. Your mouth tastes like acid. The world is spinning out of control.

Ignis presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up. I’m calling a doctor—”

“No, don’t.” You weakly wave a hand. “I’ll be fine by morning. Don’t tell Aranea. I just need to sleep, that’s all.”

Ignis walks you back to your trailer, looping your arm around his neck, and his around your waist. Your cheek momentarily rests against his chest, and you can feel his warm breath fanning over your head. You try your best not to retch on his shirt. Perhaps it’s the fever talking, but all you could think about is how this shirt looks perfect on him and you do not want to ruin it with your vomit.

Which is why out of your delirious haze, you say out of the blue: “Have I ever told you that you look so good in black?”

Ignis tilts his head. He hesitates for a moment, and then says, “I’m afraid not.”

“Well, now you know. I like your black dress shirt. You look so dapper in it.” And there goes your filter straight out the window.

“Thank you. It’s… nothing special.” He sounds unsure. Or is that embarrassment? Either way, you’re too sick to even look at his face to see his reaction.

Ignis guides you straight to your bed. You toss yourself so gracelessly against the mattress, and you gather the sheets to bundle up for warmth. A wave of nausea threatens to lurch out of your mouth. As far as you’re concerned, the inside of your trailer should not be this freezing cold.

“I’ll get you something to eat,” Ignis says, and as he prepares to drift to the kitchen, you grab for his hand.

“Please stay for a minute. Tell me a story.” You sound like a five-year-old.

He sits on the edge of the bed. “What kind of story?” His voice is gentler than usual. It is jarring, to say the least.

You pull yourself up, your arm brushing against his. “Like, is it possible that you’re a gremlin? ‘Cause how come it’s so hard to—” you thumb the corners of his mouth to make him smile— “see you do _this?”_

You can feel his face tremble a little in your touch. He looks at you strangely. You know he’s about to say something, but you are ill-prepared to what happens next.

Ignis starts to laugh.

You can’t believe this is what you have been missing for the last couple of days. What you have been missing your entire _life._ You have only known him for two weeks, but now, it’s like looking at a completely different person. He’s all lit up, his laughter radiating like the sun, bright and warm and blinding. His eyes disappear behind his smile lines, and his mouth curves to exhibit his perfect teeth and that illegally gorgeous smile. Your heart is pounding and you are certain that this is not your fever doing the talking anymore.

“I can assure you, I’m not a gremlin,” he says, wiping his eye with his hand.

“Good to know,” you say, sinking back to your pillows. “But I swear—I will make you laugh like that again when I get better,” you say confidently. And as you drift to deep sleep, the sound of his laughter is the last thing you hear.

 

* * *

  

The third month arrives and Ignis sees you a little differently.

Different in a way that your smile is now a bullet to his heart. Your laughter, a drug. Your kiss, a secret he would forever keep. Not only have you grown on him, but you have made a home inside his body. His mind, your temple. You have seduced his empty heart, and now it is beating only for you.

But if there’s anything Ignis knows by now, it’s that good things always come to an end. They always do. And he knows better. He knows you aren’t for him, and he isn’t for you.

 

* * *

 

The third month sweeps you off your feet as Aranea enters your trailer with a new man in tow. At first, you think he is one of the new actors with the way he carries himself with an air of confidence, but you immediately recognize the logo on his jacket.

The first thing that leaves your mouth is: “Where’s Ignis?”

Aranea’s mouth twists. She hesitates, then says, “Ignis quit. Told me he found a new job. Nyx here would be his replacement.”

Your heart plummets. The expression on your face might have been so fucking obvious because Aranea casts you a worried glance, and so does this Nyx. He looks slightly uncomfortable with the way you skate your narrowed eyes at him, as if he has no right to be in your breathing space. As if he has no right at all to ever replace Ignis.

“I can see that you’re upset with this change,” Nyx begins to say, quickly regaining his charming composure, “but by _'quit,'_ it means he has left to pursue a different career path. Doesn’t mean he left you—I mean, for another client, that is.”

A simmering silence. Aranea and Nyx are watching you with growing alarm. You don’t know why, but something in you breaks.

You force yourself to smile, but it’s not very convincing. Some actor you are. And in the most modulated voice you could muster, you say, “Good for him then.” To Nyx, you say, “Do send him my regards when you see him around.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as Ignis pulls over your apartment building, you climb out of his car, weaving past another throng of paparazzi. Someone yells _“Congrats on another blockbuster! Is this your new boyfriend?”_ and a couple of other things that only grates your ears. Ignis is quick to follow, and he shields you with his body as he leads you inside the lobby. Probably his force of habit, but it only unearths a memory of a good time that has already hollowed you out.

When the two of you reach the front door of your apartment, he finally breaks the silence. “I’m assuming you have Nyx trapped in some dark alley?”

“No, not really,” you say flatly. “He actually let me go on my own. Cooler than my previous bodyguard, if you ask me.”

“How convenient.”

“So, sous chef to the illustrious Weskham Armaugh, huh.”

“Indeed.”

“Now, care to explain to me why you really left without even saying a word? Especially to me?” There is a tremor that breaks your voice, and his smile slowly creases to a frown. “Is that it? Was that your grand plan? Make me fall in love with you and then just go up and leave—”

“I beg your pardon?” Ignis looks mystified, as if you have said something completely ludicrous. He stares at you for a long, scalding moment. “What did you just say?”

You scoff. “Are you kidding me right now? I said…”

The realization dawns on you in a slow unravel. Before you can even formulate an explanation, Ignis steals your breath away with a kiss. You have done this before in the confines of your trailer, but this time is different. This time, the feeling is no longer secret.

“You have absolutely no idea how I’ve wanted to do that this time around,” he says with a smile. And when he tells you _I love you,_ he does not mean _I love you regardless of_ or _I love you despite,_ but rather _I love you just because I do._

 


End file.
